Victory
by Ayla Pascal
Summary: Hermione is haunted by her dreams.


Author Notes: I wrote this years ago but never posted it here until now.

For the darkones _Aegri Somnia_ challenge. All mistakes in French are entirely due to my complete ignorance of that language (read: I used babelfish). Thank you to everybody at realreview for their help! And thank you scribbling_elf for help with the French.

~*~

Seven-year-old Hermione hangs a dream catcher over her bed.

"Sweet dreams," her mother says as she tucks Hermione in at night.

As Hermione lies there, she can see out of the corner of her eye the closed loop of the dream catcher. She wonders whether good dreams are ever stuck between the glass beads and feathers. Then she wonders whether she should catch the dreams at all. Maybe somewhere out there is a dreamland where all dreams fly free.

~*~

A cold wind blows and Lucius stands under a tree in Hogsmeade. Christmas music plays in the background but Hermione doesn't smile. Her face is set in hard lines, far too hard for her still-young age, as she hands over the latest list of Mudbloods willing to join the cause.

"Je t'admire," he tells her and she wonders why he's speaking French.

_I admire you._

"Not what you said twelve years ago in Flourish and Blotts," she said icily.

They both ignore the fact that the bookshop is now in ruins and has been for the past five years.

~*~

Eleven-year-old Hermione can't sleep at Hogwarts. She's used to having her own room but now she has to sleep in a dormitory with four other girls. Everybody else seems to be breathing out of time and she wonders whether they would be mad if she told them to synchronise their breathing.

She lies in bed and stares up at the dark red canopy that looks black in the night and wonders what on earth is the use of being a witch if you still can't sleep.

~*~

The air is thick with summer and Hermione can smell the scent of moorland flowers. They are standing in a small grove of trees, safe for the meantime, although she notices how both of them clutch their wands with white-knuckled fingers.

"Les rêves ne sont pas la réalité," he says and she laughs.

_Dreams are not reality._

"You sent the dreams," she says, her voice dry.

He simply shrugs.

~*~

Fifteen-year-old Hermione has taken to watching Harry sleep in Grimmauld Place. He sleeps with one hand pillowing his cheek, almost like a child. She can almost tell when one of the nightmares is about to start because he stiffens and begins to shake. Hermione wonders at times like this whether she should wake Harry up. Talk to him about the dreams, maybe. But then she's fascinated by the furrowed lines on his forehead, the clenched teeth and the soft whimpers.

Sometimes, she spends the night-time hours wandering around Grimmauld Place, her footsteps soft on the carpet. There are so many closed doors in this house and Hermione's determined to find out what is behind each one. She cannot understand how others sleep so quietly, so soundly when the world is falling down around them.

Hermione thinks that maybe she's the only one who can see it.

When she sees the pink light of dawn on the horizon, Hermione steals back to her room and slips back into bed. When she wakes up a few hours later, she casts a do-not-notice on the dark circles under her eyes and goes downstairs with a bright smile on her face.

-~*~

"Vous avez la puissance," he told her once on a breezy autumn morning and she believed him.

_You have the power._

Hermione thinks that she perhaps always knew that. From the day she was the only one in class to change the matchstick to a needle, to the day she successfully (in secret) cast Dark spells on rats. The actual spells themselves aren't difficult, but Hermione prides herself on her ability to mask her magical signature.

There is nothing, she thinks, like the feeling of power thrumming through her wand.

~*~

Eighteen-year-old Hermione watches as the world crumbles around her and everybody goes about their normal lives. There is talk of a possible truce established with Voldemort.

Unspoken: _our saviour is dead_

Hermione wonders if they can see the religious connotations. Harry Potter is only a few steps away from being canonized as a saint. Perhaps that would do the trick in mustering their troops.

Or maybe not.

The Dark Lord is too powerful and Hermione knows this. Not You-Know-Who any more. Even the Prophet calls him the Dark Lord and Hermione rips it up into shreds systematically each morning.

When she receives her NEWTs, Hermione doesn't even glance at them but throws them in the fire. The flames dance more brightly up the chimney for a second before subsiding again. She knows now that it takes more than good marks for her to get anywhere in this world.

~*~

Hermione sits hunched over a tiny desk covered with papers and dust. She can smell spring on the air even from her cramped little room.

"Le monde sera à toi," she reads from one of Lucius's letters.

_The world will be yours._

Hermione hopes so as she shreds and burns the letter.

Safety first. Always.

~*~

Twenty-year-old Hermione throws her old dream catcher into the fire. She doesn't need the sweet happy dreams any more. Dreams of blood, of battle, of victory haunt her and she is determined that the world doesn't always have to be this way.

"I resign," she says as she hands in her room keys to Albus Dumbledore.

He doesn't answer.

Hermione knows she was sheltered from the changes in the wizarding world while in the insulated Hogwarts community but she's still horrified as she walks into Diagon Alley and sees the hostile glares.

"Dirty Mudblood," is the new catchphrase.

She clenches her fingers and is determined that she will not become like the whores standing outside Knockturn Alley, desperate for even a Knut thrown their way.

~*~

"Nous avons tous changé," he tells the public and she smiles secretly, watching from her position, half-hidden behind a pillar.

_We have all changed._

"We have all changed," he repeats for those who do not understand yet. "The world must change with us. Discard the old ways and embrace the new."

Lucius is quite the talented demagogue.

~*~

Twenty-five-year-old Hermione is haunted by her dreams.

_Kill the Dark Lord_," seems to be whispered in her ear each night as she lies there tossing and turning in her threadbare sheets.

Hermione thinks that perhaps she ought to be scared that she agrees with the voice in her dreams. Even purebloods aren't happy nowadays. For all that Tom Riddle could take over the wizarding world, he doesn't seem capable of running it. The economy is in shambles and even Hermione hears the whisper that Muggle government is recruiting Mudbloods for their cause. She wonders why she isn't contacted despite being a prime candidate. Intelligent, parents killed by wizards and, of course, Mudblood.

Then she wonders whether she would ever work with the Muggles.

There is a sharp knock on her door one day and as Hermione opens it, she has a Portkey thrust in her fingers.

~*~

"Nous serons victorieux," he says and she nods sharply before turning back to their plans and blueprints for a perfect world.

_We will be victorious._

They _have_ to be.

Victory or death. It's the only way.

~*~

Twenty-eight-year-old Hermione works hard with none other than Lucius Malfoy to subvert the system and to gain power. Sometimes she wonders why he chose her but as she speaks to an assembled group of Mudbloods, watching as they react to her every word, she knows.

"We will have a perfect world," she cries and they cheer.

"We will prevail!"

Lucius attends these meetings only in a black cloak, standing in a corner. He has his own work to attend to. Different to Hermione's but still important. Dinners with fellow disgruntled purebloods. Careful proposals being set out. Bribes and blackmail sent out to those who were weak.

They only meet rarely and Hermione is amused as Lucius spits out strings of expletives in French. It's a musical language, a perfect language for revolution and they use it.

_Traître_ is scrawled on the doors of loyal Dark Lord supporters.

Hermione finds herself amused when the Dark Lord has public executions complete with Dementors and she meets Lucius's eyes in the crowd. _Traître_, indeed.

~*~

"Nous avons créé une utopie," he whispers as she arches up to meet him.

_We have created utopia._

Hermione agrees. They've created utopia, but she knows how utopias can crumble and break apart. She wants to keep this perfection.

~*~

Thirty-year-old Hermione smiles and stands up to greet the Muggle Prime Minister.

"Thank you," she says and shakes his hand firmly. "Thank you on behalf of the wizarding world. I'm so very pleased that we could reaffirm the Magi-Muggle, fifty year, non-aggression, non-interference pact."

There is diplomacy all around and everybody ignores the past.

Later that evening, Hermione turns and smiles at Lucius. "We did it."

He nods. "We did."

Plans were hatched and executed. They worked hard to ensure power over the wizarding world and non-interference from the Muggle world. They struggled to gain control and now are on the cusp of the fruition of their plans.

Hermione now wonders what comes next.


End file.
